How might I become
A simple soul,
Who wanders wordlessly
In your arms,
Who pauses to smell the flowers?
Who thanks you for
Their perfume?
Who listens to you singing
Through the birds in the
Morning, or the sound of
A baby giggling?
Who thanks you for everything,
From the warm mug of
Cocoa to the soft fur of that
Kitten running underneath her
Besweatered hand?

How might I become
A simple lover,
A quiet lover,
Who relies on you
For all her needs?
Who loves with all her heart
The one who knows her,
Down to the hairs on her head?
Who knew her name before she
Was born?
Who allows your love to guide
Her living for your loving?
Who is content in you before all
Others?

How might I become
A simple child,
To hide in the folds of your
Glory, with complete trust that
You will take care of
Everything that the enemy
Threatens her with?
Who will trust you,
Because you are bigger,
Stronger, and mightier
Than all her foes?
Who knows that this is a case
Of ‘My dad can beat up
Your dad’... that will
Never be contested?

How might I become
A lowly servant,
Who does not
Disobey you?
Who knows her
Role in the grand scheme
Of things
And knows the consequence
Of rebellion?
Who knows of
Enemies who will
Prey on the weakness
Of the household should
The servant leave
The diligence of
Her task to the thinness
Of the air?

How might I become
A little soldier,
Who loves her
King with a protective
Zeal?
Who defends the
Ramparts of weak
Souls from the blackening
Words of Gentiles
And pagans?
Who defends
The name of her
Almighty King
From those who
Wish to kill him
And wish to send
His people asunder
As wolves in a flock of
Sheep?
Who will not stain
Her snow white pendant
With the words of a sinner?

For I am a girl
Who folds her arms
Across her heart,
And stands in a running
Pose, with my eyes
Closed.
I call out ‘Abba, Father!’
And welcome the Spirit
Into my cold metal cage
Of uncertainty. With all the
Words trapped in my fluttering
Heart I cry out to you but
The gates will not be opened
So easily. I am not a lover or
A child or a simple soul,
Or even a servant or soldier,
But a caged bird who sings
To the bars surrounding her,
Echoing back and harboring
Tears.

But, My Lord most high,
I am your clay, to be molded
Into a simple soul, a lover, or
A child- whatever you will,
Though I may be the toughest clay to find.